by Dorothy Mack
“Better not to put any weight on the ankle for the present,” her masterful rescuer said firmly, “and you must know you weigh a feather.” He smiled at her kindly, but her lashes fell beneath the gleam of amusement lurking in dark grey eyes.
Emerald surrendered to force majeure and settled back to enjoy the pleasant sensation of being carried in a man’s arms. She could feel the steady slow beating of his heart beneath her ear as his great strides ate up the distance to the door near the kitchen.
“If you can reach the handle of the door, Miss Hardwicke, I won’t have to jar your ankle in shifting your weight.”
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, obeying his instructions.
Lord Altern no sooner stepped into the hall with his arms full of girl when he had to swerve to avoid a collision with Miss Latham, who was coming out of the kitchen.
“Well met, Miss Latham,” he said in cheerful greeting.
Cleone blinked, taking in the scene before her. “It isn’t raining,” she pointed out with seeming irrelevance.
Lord Altern’s lips twitched, but his voice was under control. “Your cousin has had the misfortune to twist her ankle on a stone. Where shall I put her?”
Cleone’s glance swept over Emerald’s subdued face before eyeing Lord Altern’s broad shoulders assessingly.
“Her own room is the best place for her, and it will save having a footman carry her up later.”
“I knew I might rely on your practical nature, Miss Latham,” the earl declared.
“Yes, of course you might,” that young woman agreed placidly. “If you will follow me, sir, it is just up these stairs and down a few corridors.”
His eyes laughed at her, but he merely said solicitously to his passenger as they started up the stairs, “I hope I am not jolting your ankle, Miss Hardwicke.”
She assured him he had not hurt her at all, gazing at him adoringly as they reached the landing and started up another flight. By the time they arrived at Emerald’s bedchamber, Miss Latham had opened the door and was directing him to deposit the injured girl on the bed. By now, Lord Altern’s breathing rate had increased slightly. He did as directed and stepped back.
Cleone permitted Emerald to express her gratitude to her porter in fulsome terms while she rang for Tilly; she then dismissed him with brisk thanks, closing the door promptly behind him.
CHAPTER 9
The day of the picnic excursion dawned blue and beautiful, but Cleone gazed at the peaceful scene beyond her bedroom window with a jaundiced eye. She looked forward with severe misgivings to what she could not help considering an ill-conceived jaunt. Under other circumstances, a drive to Bramber Castle would no doubt prove enjoyable, and the idea of an al-fresco meal on a lovely summer day was not without charm. The objection lay in the cast of characters assembled at Mr. Bernard Ludlow’s instigation, for she had no doubt that the plan had originated in the fertile mind of Mr. Ludlow for the sole purpose of providing him with an opportunity to spend time with Cecily away from the inhibiting presence of parents. And if things at Bramble Hall had been as they appeared on the surface, Cleone would have had no compunction about providing nominal chaperonage while the young people conducted their courting in a sylvan setting.
The situation at Bramble, however, was growing increasingly awkward as the time span of Lord Altern’s visit ran out without so far resulting in a marriage proposal. Emerald was indulging in a mood of brittle gaiety assumed to hide the beginnings of desperation. Cleone was nearly certain that yesterday’s wrenched ankle had been a ruse to evoke sympathy or bring her closer to Lord Altern, who had not yet sought a private interview with her. Far from taking advantage of the opportunity to be private, her reluctant suitor had promptly turned her, ankle and all, over to her cousin and had then compounded his offense by choosing to engage in a marathon chess contest with Lord Brestwick after dinner.
At breakfast this morning Emerald had involved Cecily in an animated discussion of the proposed outing, pointedly ignoring her guest and her cousin. Any lingering hopes on Cleone’s part that she would behave with restraint today were suffocated at that point. Emerald would encourage Mr. Chalmers’ obvious efforts to engage her whole attention in a futile effort designed to induce jealousy in Lord Altern while at the same time riding roughshod over her friend Adelaide’s feelings. Unless Lord Altern and Philip cooperated by amusing Miss Ludlow, the day had all the makings of an unmitigated disaster.
Cleone gave a perfunctory check of her hair in the mirror before setting an attractive villager straw hat at a comfortable angle on her head. Her thoughts were on her troubles, not her looks, so she was totally unconscious of the charming picture she presented in her strawberry-pink muslin dotted with white and trimmed with a triple flounce, edged in white piping, at the hem of the new, slightly wider skirt. She checked her netted reticule to make sure she had a handkerchief, a number of pins, and a vinaigrette to cater to all emergencies, and then she closed her door and headed toward the stairs with a step that could only be described as reluctant.
The door to the green saloon was open, and as Cleone passed by, a movement from within attracted her attention. Without conscious thought she stepped in, her eyes glued to the newspaper in Lord Altern’s hand. He was standing at the French doors gazing out, obviously too lost in thought to be aware of her presence. Her hesitant voice brought him spinning around.
“Not — not more friends killed in Belgium, sir?”
“What?” He was a bit slow to absorb her words and the anxious look in the velvety brown eyes confronting him, but comprehension dawned before she could repeat the question. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Latham. No, this is simply a more detailed account of what they are calling the Battle of Waterloo. Wellington’s habit, you know, is to refer to the army’s engagements by the name of the place where he spent the night previous to the battle; in this case, a little village called Waterloo, about ten miles south of Brussels. It seems very strange to be so out of touch with what the army is doing these days. It was my life for a number of years.”
“Do you miss military life?”
“Certain aspects of it, I suppose, the camaraderie, the sense of having a purpose. I certainly don’t miss the dirt and discomfort or the stench of battle and death.” He replaced the paper on the table and walked toward where she stood a foot or so inside the door.
“Don’t you feel your present life has a purpose?”
For a timeless interval two pairs of serious dark eyes clung together, one pair eloquent of sympathy and the other reflecting an unadmitted sadness.
“I feel I am leading my brother’s life.” Surprise flashed into Lord Altern’s eyes as his lips uttered the revealing sentiment seemingly without his brain’s consent or participation.
His listener nodded comprehension. “That is understandable, given the sad circumstances of your brother’s untimely death, but it is your life now, however much you may wish it otherwise.”
“And I must make the best of it, you are implying?”
“Not at all,” she denied with a negative shake of her head. “You are free to make the worst of it if you choose.”
He looked a bit taken aback by this bald statement of his options delivered in the unemotional tone of a waiter offering him a choice between two dishes. Before he could make any reply, Emerald’s clear voice interposed to warn them that the carriage from the Grange had arrived — she had seen it from an upstairs window. The beautiful brunette surveyed the two startled figures with a cool censure, then slipped past them to head toward the morning room.
Avoiding Lord Altern’s eyes and furious with herself for acting like she had been caught flagrante delicto, Cleone put up her chin and forced her footsteps to an unhurried pace as she followed her cousin down the hall. The man at her side remained silent for the short distance, but she could not know whether he was merely thinking over their interrupted conversation or regretting what could have looked like a deliberate tête-à-tête.
The par
ty from the Grange came in to do the polite by Lady Henley while the horses were called for. Of the ladies only Emerald had elected to ride, Cecily and Cleone preferring to drive in the Ludlow carriage with Adelaide. There was plenty of room for the edible contributions from Bramble since the servants from the Grange had already headed for the picnic site with most of the food and accoutrements.
Cecily was in tearing spirits, which she had the grace to temper in front of Adelaide, but her enthusiasm was infectious, and the two girls were soon chatting unselfconsciously. Miss Ludlow did not seem to object to the other’s less-than-subtle questions about her brother, obliging with stories of their shared childhood and proud descriptions of Bernard’s prowess at all forms of sport. Cleone was well-pleased to let the girls make overtures toward friendship. Only a year separated them in age, and it would be good for Cecily to have friends in the neighbourhood, especially since Emerald was sure to be married before long, whether to Lord Altern or some as-yet-unknown candidate.
Adelaide explained that they planned to explore the ruins of the castle before their picnic, since people tended to become lazy after an outdoor meal. This was not a theory with which Miss Latham was personally disposed to quarrel. If it proved to operate on her charges, her chaperone’s duties would be considerably less onerous.
When they arrived near the site of the old castle, the riders turned their mounts over to the groom, who had ridden on the box with the coachman, leaving everyone free to ramble around the ruins with no concern for the horses. The castle’s location on the banks of the River Adur was lovely, but it was not easy to form a mental picture of its former splendour from its present sad state. Like so many other Norman castles, Bramber had been almost completely destroyed during the Civil War. The property was still owned by the Duke of Norfolk, whose permission had been sought to visit the site.
The large party broke up quite naturally into two sections, with Miss Ludlow passing on the version of the castle’s history that had been told to her to Lord Altern and Lord Henley. Her brother carefully guided Miss Latham and Cecily around the rubble that made walking treacherous in places. Mr. Chalmers and Emerald were present in body, though too much engrossed in their own private explorations to heed much that Mr. Ludlow was saying.
Nothing remained of the interior buildings, but a dramatic high wall of crumbling masonry gave evidence of the size of the main keep, thought to have been built by Robert de Braose, a Norman, in the late eleventh century. Other than some fragments of the outer curtain wall, the destruction had been complete.
Except for Emerald, who had worn riding dress, the ladies found their light summer sandals inadequate to the rough overgrown terrain. They raised no objection when Mr. Ludlow proposed making their way to a flat area closer to the river where there was shade for their picnic meal. The servants had been busy in the interim, unpacking the second carriage and setting out blankets and hampers of food. There were even chairs in case anyone preferred to eat in less close proximity to the earth, but to a man the participants elected to lounge about on the rugs and blankets.
The word “feast” was not too much of an exaggeration to describe the meal provided by the Grange’s kitchen. There were several varieties of summer vegetables, plain for nibbles or combined in salads, and platters of cold sliced beef, ham and breast of chicken. The cook had included a quantity of fresh sliced bread for those who cared to emulate the Earl of Sandwich by placing their meat between slices of bread and eating it with the hands. Several bottles of wine were found in the hampers and a large container of lemonade had been provided for the ladies. For those not interested in the Grange cook’s tall chocolate cake or the cookies from Bramble Hall, there was Stilton and cheddar cheese and luscious fruit, including some plump strawberries.
“Thank you, just this last slice,” said Miss Latham, accepting a juicy section of the peach being peeled by Philip and shared out to his cousin and Miss Ludlow. “Oh, this is delicious! Why is it,” she asked no one in particular, “that one always eats twice as much outside as one would of the very same meal served indoors?”
“Exercise sharpens the appetite,” Lord Altern suggested from his comfortable position with his back up against a tree.
“Emerald is the only one of us females who has that excuse. She at least rode here.”
“But I did not eat twice as much as usual, Cleo dear,” that young lady denied sweetly.
“Well, I did,” Cecily said frankly. “It must be that everything tastes so much better outdoors.”
Adelaide agreed with her and accepted her “positively last” slice of peach from Philip, who popped the rest of it into his own mouth and lay back with his head pillowed in his hands, staring up through a tangle of branches into clear blue sky.
So far, the outing had proved more enjoyable than Cleone had dared to hope. What conversation there had been during the lunch had been of a general nature, touching for the most part on the scenery and the ruined castle they had explored. It was true that Mr. Chalmers had remained determinedly by Emerald’s side throughout, but Adelaide had chatted easily with the others, and Lord Altern and Philip had seen that she had everything she could wish from the food containers. Though Mr. Ludlow had brought his plate over to sit beside Cecily, his manners were too good for him to ignore the rest of his guests. He made sure everyone was satisfied before signalling to the servants, who had been having their own meal, that they might begin to clear away the used plates and debris.
Cleone sighed aloud. “If my fingers were not so sticky, I’d never move again, that’s how lazy I feel. Did I see a container of water earlier, Mr. Ludlow?” She started to get to her knees, but Mr. Ludlow gestured her down again and himself went to fetch the water.
He brought water back in a small bowl into which the ladies dipped their serviettes to clean their hands.
“I hesitate to mention such a delicate matter, but there is peach juice on your chin, Miss Latham,” said an apologetic voice from across the rug. “I thought you would wish to know.”
Cleone ignored the little giggle from Cecily. “You are too kind, sir.” She re-dipped a corner of the serviette and unconcernedly brushed at her chin.
“More to the left,” advised Lord Altern, ever helpful. “There, that did it.”
Miss Latham smiled at him coolly, briefly, before brushing an adventurous ant from her skirt.
While the servants were covering the leftover food and removing it to the shade of the trees, Mr. Ludlow proposed a game of quoits to the men. The ladies were invited to participate, but when Miss Latham declared herself much too replete to engage in any activity requiring more exertion than an occasional clapping of the hands, the others followed suit in declining.
“May I offer my tree as a comfortable spot for snooz— er, watching the contest, Miss Latham?”
Cleone ignored the teasing note in Lord Altern’s voice and accepted the rug he folded into a mat for her against the trunk of his tree. She and the younger ladies settled back to cheer on the contestants.
It was blissfully peaceful to be sitting in the shade of a lovely beech tree on a riverbank with just enough of a breeze present to move the sweet summer air and discourage the insect population. The men had discarded their jackets and waistcoats, and their white shirts were almost blinding in the sunshine. For a time Cleone watched the game in progress with the others, but it soon became clear that the true contest was between Mr. Ludlow and Lord Altern. Strength would always tell with the heavy metal quoits, and the earl was the largest and obviously the strongest of the men. Mr. Ludlow displayed a grace and economy of motion that was a pleasure to watch — she would wager that he was a notable performer on the dance floor — but Lord Altern was going to emerge the eventual winner. He threw the ten-pound quoit as if it weighed no more than a child’s ball.
Cleone’s gaze was irresistibly drawn to the slow-moving river, barely rippling where the errant breeze touched it during its inevitable voyage to the sea. No thoughts of tasks undone or d
uties to perform disturbed the peaceful scene. There was something so refreshing to the eyes about nearly still water. The occasional calls of the men intruded less and the buzz of the young girls’ conversations became a muted hum, no more out of place than the insect chorus in the fields. Cleone’s eyelids drifted down.
An insect was buzzing near her ear. She did her best to ignore it, but it possessed in full measure the mindless persistence of its species, and at last, with a little grimace, she raised a hand and swiped at it.
“Ah, you are back among the living, Miss Latham. Did you enjoy your nap, er, rest?”
Cleone’s eyes whipped open. She turned her head and met the soft — soft? — burnished pewter stare of Lord Altern, who was sitting on the ground not two feet from her in an indolent pose, his elbows resting on outspread knees, his hands hanging down between them, one in the loose clasp of the other.
Confusion overcame the poised Miss Latham. “Was I asleep?” Then as laughter appeared in his eyes, she charged testily, “Why did you let me sleep so long? Where is everyone?”
“I have frequently observed that people, regardless of their individual natures, tend to be cross when they waken suddenly,” Lord Altern remarked in the thoughtful tone of one stating a newly discovered scientific principle of universal interest. “Especially females,” he added.
Cleone, who had opened her mouth to protest this ridiculous misallegation, snapped it shut again when she heard the rider. She wouldn’t touch that with a barge pole! She flashed him a scorching underbrowed glance and prepared to get to her feet.
“At least, my Aunt Bess, your esteemed godmother, is of this ilk,” he went on, making a smooth recovery, “and you know the woman doesn’t exist with a sweeter nature than Aunt Bess’s.”
Cleone ignored the hand he held out to her and prepared to get to her knees unaided, but two strong hands instantly clasped her about the waist and set her on her feet with dizzying swiftness. Her indignant glare met an intense expression that sent her lashes down in defence.
